The Spotted Towhees find last year’s leaves
to stir and kick around with the kind of blind
intensity of natives, as if they’ve always lived
here scratching beneath the outdoor chairs—
moved-in as if they owned this place before us
and whatever other square inch they may occupy,
yet so briefly that no one objects, not even
the cats, having their sneak and leap already
fixed and gauged as clumsy and rudimentary.
Even the sleepy dog tilts his head towards
these busy interlopers. How could we ignore
these squatters, these colorful immigrants?
OregonLive.com
courtesy of Rene Eisenbart, The Oregonian
drycrikjournal 